


intermission

by sleepdeprivedmaniac



Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: F/F, Past Relationship(s), bad news its sad hours, good news i peeked out of my slump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdeprivedmaniac/pseuds/sleepdeprivedmaniac
Summary: That seems to be a habit with her. Too little, too late. Too late to stop herself from making a mistake that, as always, seems better seen in hindsight. But no, the great Jihyo does not dawdle. Not in the moment, anyway, not while she’s working. Home is a different story, the part of her tale told in parenthesis.alternatively: she liked it better when someone kept her and her thoughts company.





	intermission

**Author's Note:**

> hi so um, I'm back. this was really spur of the moment but also kind of healing so hey I'm not complaining. I am working on things right now, but I'm still really busy and life is draining so the hiatus is unofficially over but officially isn't?? idk anyways please enjoy.
> 
> this was also partly inspired by little mix's "four walls"

   The shower water’s cold against her bare back, freezing even, although the dial is further right. It beats down like a memorable rain many nights ago, serving as a remnant that doesn’t help to clear her foggy mind. She can feel her skin pruning, winces every time the dirty water drips from her hair and into her eyes.

   And yet, she sits.

   Her thoughts are set in sepia tone, the background of a war documentary and deep-seated in the past. That seems to be a habit with her. Too little, too late. Too late to stop herself from making a mistake that, as always, seems better seen in hindsight. But no, the great Jihyo does not dawdle. Not in the moment, anyway, not while she’s working. Home is a different story, the part of her tale told in parenthesis.

   The neighboring barks seem to crash through her walls with the volume, and she can’t seem to help the dry comment about their landlord’s opinion on pets. Usually she wouldn’t—the younger girl next door is nice enough and her dog is rarely a nuisance—but it wasn’t in her agenda to deal with anything loud and high-pitched ringing through her skull.]

   It’s slow steps toward her dresser, dark looks shot at the empty space on the coffee table where a frame should be. Side notes are made about finally cleaning that hot chocolate stain on the couch, washing the patchwork quilt and throwing out old clothes the next day. Maybe she knows what she’s doing, subconsciously. Perhaps she doesn’t care that much, knowing that she won’t do it anyway. She’s been trying to take those actions for the past week.

   Habits are hard to break, she repeats in her mind once again with a wasted glance to the bed as she’s dressing. She sighs, hesitating before picking up her phone. It’s on before she can blink, muscles driving the familiar road to her contacts. The hesitation was for a reason, of course, a stall. But her mind is hazy and she really can’t bring herself to care.

   Once again the stall occurs, thumb hovering above the screen as it fades to black. It lights up again shortly afterwards, rejuvenated with news from work. It’s in an email, surprising as her boss usually prefers text. She opens it hesitantly, hairs rising on her neck as she skims over the message.

   Her phone bounces across the mattress, nearly flying off with the force. Thankfully it didn’t, a broken screen would only make things worth.

   She flops face down on her side of the bed, feels around for an intangible body (a wrist, a leg, anything _please_ ) before angrily grasping the covers in her fist. The hole in her chest is deep and dark, nothing unlike its astral counterpart. Missing the addiction in the affection, the nicotine laced in her touch. The black hole forces her hand, picking up the phone and dialing the number before her brain has the sense to stop it.

   The dial tone rings once, twice before cutting off. She can’t help herself.

   “Baby?” rings through the silent room. Lead runs through her veins, thick air in her lungs that she nearly chokes on. A pregnant pause in which her eyes water and her lips chap, a fine dust of hope arisen in only a millisecond.

   “…Hi this is Sana, leave a message!”

   The lead weighs her down, letting her do little more than sprawl across the bed. Bittersweet raspberries fill her nose as she groans, preparing for another night where good sleep is hard to come by. As she closes her eyes, her mind runs through the options of tomorrow. There’s nothing to be prompt to, after all.

   The stain needs cleaning, the sheets need washing, and she needs to sort her clothes from Hers. The frame needs replacing too, hopefully not one that’s so fragile. A new picture, too. One of her sisters should do.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feel free to leave any comments that you have, and I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
